


Ships in the Night

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [5]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Brothers, CIA, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Crossover, FSB, Family Issues, Gen, Moscow, SVR, Spies, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.</p><p>Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.</p><p>In the early days of his CIA career, William has to handle an important job that almost brings him face-to-face with a ghost from the past.</p><p>Takes place in September 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ships in the Night

William strolled nonchalantly past the store, using the angled window to check for signs he'd acquired a tail.

He resisted the urge to quicken his pace. Of all the lessons he'd learned during his time at The Farm, that one stood out for him now like a candle burning in the dark. Never give the impression you're going somewhere in a hurry, their surveillance counter-measures instructor had warned them time and time again. Moving quickly sets you apart from the flow of the crowd and makes you far too easy to see. And in this game—a cat-and-mouse game of one intelligence agency against another—being far too easy to see could get you or your contacts killed.

Besides, even if he wanted to, William doubted he could actually increase his speed. It was Moscow at the end of September, and he was coming into the final phase of a meticulously planned but absolutely exhausting ten-hour SDR. He'd long since lost track of how many miles he'd come. His feet were sore, he was tired and hungry and some of his extremities were going numb. But he knew he had to keep his mind and his senses sharp, especially now, when he was only minutes away from his journey's end. If he screwed up the mission now after making it so far in the clear, he would never live the embarrassment down. So he lowered his head, tempered his pace and tried to blend in with the crowd.

As he walked, he mentally reviewed the facts of the case, forcing himself to stay on point. He wasn't senior enough to have access to the entire file, but he knew the man he was going to meet was a recently developed source. For obvious reasons, the source's name was confidential information, known only to a handful of people back in the United States, but he was apparently a Major in Directorate 'S' of the SVR—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. The man's rank and position would give him access to all manner of interesting data about Russian illegals and sleeper agents, including where they were eventually being sent to live. From Langley's perspective, he was literally worth his weight in gold.

Another member of William's team had managed to meet with the source four months ago to give him his burst transmission and COVCOM uplink equipment, which he'd subsequently used to share a treasure trove of information. Four weeks ago, the Major had sent a message to the burst receiver over near the Luzhniki Bridge, requesting another in-person meeting. His COVCOM batteries were running low, and more importantly, he wanted to pass along a set of disks that contained hundreds of confidential files.

Understandably, the CIA and FBI counter-intelligence teams back in the United States were practically drooling in anticipation.

Unfortunately, around the same time, the SVR had somehow figured out it had a turncoat in its midst. Its domestic equivalent—the FSB—had since increased its already oppressive surveillance and counter-intelligence operations to an absolutely stifling degree. Most of the foreign intelligence agents operating within the city now barely had room to move or breathe, much less carry out any reconnaissance or recruitment assignments. Which, admittedly, was probably the whole point.

Everyone in the Company's Moscow Station knew it was only a matter of time before the FSB returned to a less anxious state of affairs, if only because the _siloviki_ in the Kremlin would eventually balk at the cost of all those additional hours. For William and his hard-pressed colleagues, that strategic de-escalation couldn't happen soon enough. The current, overwrought conditions were putting all of them on edge and making their jobs hell.

His team had already made two attempts to meet with the source, neither of which had ended well. The agents involved had both been wily and experienced men, but had been unable to shake their FSB ghosts, no matter how hard or how long they tried. They'd eventually had no choice but to abandon their Surveillance Detection Routes and return to the Station in defeat. And having been observed at length performing what would very obviously have been counter-surveillance manoeuvres, they would now be on the FSB's list of known foreign intelligence agents, rendering them useless for other clandestine tasks. They'd both been reassigned to other stations, not exactly in disgrace, but not exactly covered in glory, either.

William was one of the newer members of the team, having been in Russia now for just over six months, so naturally, such a vitally important job had not initially fallen to him. But with two of his more senior colleagues now completely out of the picture, he'd finally been given a shot at the prize.

Moscow's embattled Chief of Station—a caustic, resentful, sweaty man by the name of Sebastian Hunt—had already warned him that this would probably be their final chance. Their source was new enough to the treason business to still be extremely nervous, and with the sudden increase in the level of FSB surveillance, he was demonstrating the classic signs of having second thoughts.

Not that William could really blame him. The United States had dealt with its fair share of notorious traitors. But Ames and Hanssen were both alive, albeit in prison for the rest of their lives. Their Russian equivalents—men like Polyakov, Martynov and Motorin—rarely met such an agreeable fate. If the Major was caught, he would likely be interrogated until he confessed, then taken down to a basement room in Lefortovo and quietly shot in the back of the head.

Which meant everything was riding on this third attempt. If William struck out, they would probably lose the source for good, and have no further access to all of that astoundingly useful information. And more to the point, his own career in the CIA would come to a screeching halt before it had even had a chance to get off the ground.

He came to a junction and turned left, using the movement to check again for signs that he was being watched. A car hanging back or driving too slowly, someone quickly turning away, familiar faces, colours, clothes or shoes. He saw nothing that gave him any cause for concern. After almost ten hours of travelling through Moscow's many suburbs, sometimes by car, sometimes by bus but mostly on foot, he was finally completely black.

He allowed himself the luxury of a tiny moment of celebration. But not too much. He might be off the FSB grid, but he still had to meet his man, take possession of the disks and return with them safely to the Station. It was somewhat ironic, though, that he might be the member of the team to finally complete this difficult task. If he'd stuck to his original plan, he wouldn't even be in Moscow at all.

He'd taken the job with the CIA on the understanding he'd be based out of the Langley office, with only occasional, short assignments abroad. He'd had no burning desire to live and work overseas, his eight years with the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group having more than fulfilled that particular youthful need.

Unfortunately, within a month of starting in his new role, four different people had quietly warned him that no matter how good he proved to be at his job, if he didn't have at least one operational foreign tour logged in his personal file, certain doors would forever remain firmly closed. Doors he very much wanted to be open for him, in the rarefied heights of Langley's sixth and seventh floors.

After discussing the matter with Michelle, he'd asked to be sent to The Farm, where the agency taught him how to be an operational agent working within the borders of a hostile foreign power. He didn't finish at the top of the class, but unlike several of the other people who'd started with him, he at least made it to the end of the course.

He couldn't dictate where he wanted to go on his first tour, but he'd dropped a few hints to his instructors that Germany would suit him well. It was the country of his birth, and he spoke the language as well as a native, although thanks to his Oma Johanna, with the distinctive accent of a Berliner. Germany also had the advantage of being civilized, safe and clean. He wanted Michelle and Andrew to go with him, but not if the destination was a squalid, war-torn hell-hole somewhere in The Third World.

The one place he'd wanted to avoid was Russia, and not because of the safety concerns or the potentially inclement weather. Going to Russia would force him to face some very unpleasant ghosts from the past; ghosts he'd long been more than happy to ignore. He might have been born in Germany, but Russia was, quite literally, the land of his fathers. Except that he hadn't seen or spoken to his own father for more than twenty years.

He still remembered that awful day in West Berlin in the summer of 1982, when his mother took him out with her to visit some family friends. When they returned to the apartment many hours later, both his father and twin brother were gone. There had been no contact between the two halves of the family since, and the one attempt he'd made eighteen months ago to track down his missing twin had led him only to Kirill's grave. Finding out his sibling was dead had robbed him of any need or desire to then go looking for his father.

To the best of his knowledge, Alexander Orlov had made a very conscious and deliberate choice to abandon his wife and his older son. Even after all this time, William still found that very hard to accept, and almost impossible to forgive. So going to Russia, and specifically to Moscow, where his father had been born and raised and might even now be living, was something he'd wanted to avoid.

Unfortunately, his subtle hints had failed to have the desired effect. The best laid plans of mice and men meant nothing to the CIA.

When they'd posted him to Moscow Station, he'd actually been so annoyed that he'd given very serious thought to handing in his resignation, but Michelle—ever the rational half of the marriage—had persuaded him to bow to his fate. She'd pointed out the decision made a lot of sense. The Berlin Station was very well staffed, while the Moscow Station was in almost constant need of new blood. Thanks to the oppressive tactics of the FSB, it was burning through operational agents faster than Langley could churn them out. He had military training, had minored in Russian History at school and spoke the language as fluently as any foreigner ever could. In hindsight, he'd been an idiot to think the Company was ever going to send him anywhere else.

So here he was, six months later, living and working in the sprawling metropolis that was the heart of the Russian Federation. He'd quickly come to love and hate the place in more or less equal measure. It was a truly astounding city, with a grandeur, history and scale that few locations in the States could match, but in so many ways, it simply reminded him of everything he'd lost in Berlin all those years ago.

William sighed, mentally kicked himself in the balls and forced all thoughts of his father and brother aside. There was a time and a place to ruminate on his family problems, and this absolutely wasn't it.

He stayed with the road as it curved around the side of a park, then took another left into a quieter residential street, slowing slightly as he did to once again look for signs of a tail. As with the previous checks, nothing untoward drew his attention or caused his stomach to churn. As far as he could tell, he was still completely in the clear.

He could see the wall of the ancient graveyard now, right at the very end of the street.

He stopped to kneel down and re-tie his lace, using the momentary delay to surreptitiously look at his watch. He was supposed to meet his SVR source at the Galitzine family mausoleum in precisely thirteen minutes time. He had one final road to cross, about twenty metres up ahead, then another hundred metres or so until he reached the cemetery gate. Once inside, it wouldn't take him long to make his way to the mausoleum. He'd memorized the map of the place until he'd started to see it in his dreams, so knew exactly which of the winding paths to take.

As he approached that final road, he had to remind himself once again not to increase his speed. He couldn't forget his basic training, no matter how close he was to his goal. The devil takes a hand in anything done in haste, as his Oma had been so fond of saying.

He stepped out beyond the edge of the building, and cursed quietly in German as he spotted the car. It was parked a hundred metres or so away on the left, looking straight at the junction he'd just been about to cross. That in itself wasn't overtly suspicious, but the colour, make and model were.

He pulled back behind the building, resisting the urge to flatten himself against the wall. Cursing again, he quickly reviewed the details he'd caught in that fleeting look. The car was black, and it was definitely a BMW, maybe a Series 7, more likely a Series 5. There had been someone in it, but strangely, he hadn't heard an engine running.

It could be a local, pausing to make a call or check directions on a map. But this was a seriously sketchy part of town. Nobody who owned such an expensive car who also had an ounce of sense would stop on this particular road unless something was very wrong.

His intuition was screaming at him not to take the risk. He had to assume it was something worse, such as an SVR or FSB team out on a surveillance review.

Unfortunately, as long as that car remained where it was, he couldn't get to his destination. There was another entrance to the site, but he would have to circle so far around that by the time he made it to the mausoleum, his contact would be long gone.

He snuck another glance at his watch. He had nine minutes until the meeting, and they had pre-arranged a six minute window, which meant he now had fifteen minutes to figure out what the hell to do. He could brazen it out, pull up his collar and pretend to be just another Russian slowly making his way home at the end of an exhausting day. But he would stand out like a sore thumb, for much the same reason as the BMW had stood out to him. The streets around him weren't completely devoid of people, but they weren't exactly bustling, either.

If it was indeed a surveillance car, the graveyard was the obvious place to watch. Which meant anyone walking towards it would at the very least be closely followed, or even worse, stopped for interrogation.

He couldn't allow himself to be followed, because he had to keep the contact safe, and he couldn't allow himself to be questioned, either. He had consular status, so the Russians had no right to arrest or detain him, but as soon as they found out who he was and where he worked, they would quickly put two and two together, and add his name to the list of people to be kept under constant surveillance. If that happened, he would probably be back in Langley by the end of the week.

The safest option by far was to retreat and return to the Station before the Russians even knew he was there. This would mean blowing the meeting, and possibly losing the contact for good, but right now, William couldn't see that he had any other choice. There was always a chance they could persuade their contact to stay on board and agree to a fourth attempt.

His blood ran cold.

Jesus, what the hell was he thinking? If this whole area was under FSB surveillance, it wasn't just him who was in danger of being caught. What about the contact himself?

Were the other entrances to the location under a similar level of observation? How good was the Major's counter-surveillance training, and when had he last had the chance to put it to practical use? Would he know what to look for on the street, and to abort his approach if something struck him as out of place? If he was stopped and questioned by the FSB, the game was well and truly over.

He looked at his watch again. He now had thirteen minutes until the meeting window closed, and he would need three of them, possibly four, to actually reach the mausoleum. So unless that car miraculously decided to leave in the next nine minutes, he was absolutely, totally _fucked._

********************

Kirill shifted in his seat, trying to restore some feeling to his ass and his lower back. His car was as comfortable as they came, with heated, contoured, leather seats, but he _had_ been sitting in it for almost four hours.

Sighing softly, he reached out to twist the dial. He'd had enough of the football chatter for now; it was time for some pleasant music instead. He worked his way slowly through the channels, moving past the shitty pop, the irrelevant talk shows and the depressing news until he found a good classical station. And it was playing one of his favourite pieces, from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_. Perfect.

He'd never understood why his SVR and FSB colleagues were so surprised that he loved to listen to classical music. Just because he worked for the Foreign Intelligence Service didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the finer and more elegant things in life.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was four minutes past six, which meant he still had another fifty-six minutes to go until the end of his shift.

This wasn't _quite_ the worst assignment he'd ever had, but it was definitely a monumental waste of his skills. He'd resigned from his Spetsnaz unit ten months before, and had accepted a role with the SVR on the promise of well-paid work and interesting foreign travel. So far, that promise had completely and utterly failed to deliver. His pay had gone up, but not by much, and his boss had given him an endless stream of Moscow-based tasks, mostly liaising with his equivalents in the FSB on counter-intelligence operations.

He'd tried as hard as he could to duck out of this particular job. He had better things to do with his Wednesday nights than sit in a car for hours at a time in one of the dreariest parts of town. Unfortunately, he was the newest member of his eight-man team, and hadn't as yet completely earned his boss's trust, so the shittiest task had naturally fallen on him.

He consoled himself with the fact they'd at least given him a decent ride. It wasn't the Series 7 he really wanted, but it was better than a rattling Skoda. There should have been two of them in the car, but they were trying to cover such a massive amount of ground they'd had no choice but to split up. His FSB partner was sitting in a similar vehicle a couple of miles away, watching another entrance at the other side of the hill. Being on his own, and the civilized silence that brought with it, suited Kirill down to the ground. He didn't much care for the other man, and small talk had never really been one of his strengths.

Eight minutes past six.

He swore quietly as he suddenly realized he'd been parked on this particular road for more than the permitted time. He should have left eight minutes ago, to run a quick patrol around the nearby streets before pulling up in another location. Their boss had been very firm on this rule, reminding them that a moment of complacency or inattention was all an enemy operative required.

Kirill snorted and rolled his eyes. Whatever. He'd signed on with the SVR for the wages and the promise of travel, not because he had a burning desire to serve and protect his nation until his dying breath. Unlike some of his colleagues at Yasenevo, he had few illusions about his native land. Mother Russia, for all that she had some wonderful traits, was also a thoughtless and neglectful relation. She'd never been particularly good at taking care of him, so he felt no driving desire to take more than basic care of her.

A movement at the edge of his vision snapped him back to the here and now. He peered through the early evening gloom, scanning the street and junction up ahead, but there was nobody in sight.

He could have _sworn_ he'd seen something move, up at the corner of the abandoned building on the right. It was probably a stray dog, or a trash bag blowing in the wind, but he should really go take a closer look, just to be absolutely sure. Preferably on foot, but at the very least by driving up to the junction to see if someone was hanging around. He wasn't a frothing-at-the-mouth fanatik like his fearless leader, but he wasn't incompetent or lazy either.

Besides, the sooner they caught this idiot mole, the sooner he could go back to spending his evenings wherever and however he liked. Preferably in one of his favourite bars, knee-deep in pints of Guinness, surrounded by a bevy of blondes.

He turned the key to bring the engine back to life, gave it a few gentle revs, then switched off the music, slipped into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb. As he moved towards the junction, his radio suddenly squawked to life. He eased off the gas and paused to listen to the incoming request. His partner had spotted someone moving on foot on the other side of the hill, and was calling for help to safely run the target to ground.

Finally, something more stimulating than watching a deserted road. Kirill grabbed the radio and pressed the button to respond to the call. "Orlov, acknowledged," was his curt reply. He jammed the radio back in its mount, pulled a U-turn and sped away.

********************

William swore as he heard an engine roar to life. For all that he'd been out in the open for less than a second, the driver must have spotted him and was now coming for a closer look.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_.

He scanned around his side of the street, looking for somewhere to hide. An apartment entrance, a driveway or some kind of service alley. But there was nothing usable in sight. He could turn and walk back the way he'd come, but he would be glaringly visible to his pursuer until he reached the junction at the end of the road. Not that he had a better choice.

He turned to move off, then paused as the noise of the engine dropped.

He'd seen only one person in the vehicle, which was highly unusual for the FSB. Their car-based surveillance agents usually worked in pairs; one to drive and one to navigate or shoot. Perhaps the levels they'd been running at in the last two weeks had left them with no choice but to separate and spread out. Had the driver seen him, and was now pausing to summon a friend?

If that was the case, it was _definitely_ time to leave. He was a marine, dammit. He wasn't about to allow a pack of FSB thugs to corner him like a wounded dog.

As he picked up his pace, he heard the engine rev again, but strangely, the sound withdrew instead of moving in. Jesus. Had the car just _driven away_? Sure enough, the longer he listened, the further the noise receded into the night.

He stopped, retraced his steps and carefully peeked around the edge of the building, only to see a pair of BMW tail lights beating a hasty retreat. He was so surprised, he actually laughed out loud. For once, the luck of the Gods was with him.

He looked at his watch again. He still had nine minutes until his meeting window closed. More than enough time. He turned up his collar against the chill, shoved his hands back into his pockets, walked briskly across the now unmonitored street and headed for the rusting gate.

********************

William turned his key in the lock and carefully opened the door. It was almost eleven o'clock at night, and he was only now returning to their apartment in the embassy grounds.

He kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket onto the rack and padded quietly into the lounge. All of the lights were off except for a reading lap in the corner, which told him Michelle and Andrew had long since gone to bed. Hardly surprising, given the lateness of the hour.

He crumpled gracelessly onto the couch and rested his feet on the edge of the coffee table. It felt so good to finally not be standing, walking or talking.

He wasn't particularly hungry, thanks to the canteen sandwich he'd scarfed while Hunt debriefed him about the day's events, but he would give his right hand for a cold beer. Unfortunately, fetching a beer would mean using his poor, abused, exhausted feet.

Maybe in a few minutes. Just not right now. Right now, he only wanted to sit in the dark and think.

Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph. What a shit-show of a day it had been. One of those days that proved the universe was a vicious prick with a truly terrible sense of humour.

After his stressful moment with the car, he'd arrived at the meeting location almost precisely on time, with most of the six minute window to spare. He'd waited until the end of the window, and had then violated CIA rules by waiting three minutes more, all to no avail. The contact had declined to appear, and William had eventually departed the site as quietly and calmly as he'd arrived.

Hunt had been waiting for him when he finally made it back to the Station. He had news about their SVR source, and unfortunately, it wasn't good. The Major hadn't developed cold feet and abandoned their meeting at the eleventh hour. According to the intel chatter coming from the Brits and the French, he'd been apprehended by the FSB as he made his final approach, near the cemetery's other gate. He'd apparently attempted to run, but the FSB agent who'd spotted him had called in a second car, and they'd quickly run him to ground. Nobody knew precisely where the luckless bastard was now, but he was probably in Lefortovo, confessing to his treasonous sins.

He and Hunt had then shut themselves in the secure communications room to give Langley an update on the situation. Needless to say, the higher ups had not been pleased with the turn of events, and interestingly, the brunt of their ire had fallen squarely on the weary and indignant Chief. They felt he'd demonstrated very poor judgement in choosing such a clichéd and obvious meeting location. They'd commended William for avoiding the web of FSB surveillance, but he didn't think he deserved the praise.

He knew it had mostly been a matter of timing and luck. He'd only avoided detection himself because the driver of that second car had been summoned to assist with the chase. Had their SVR mole arrived at the site even a minute later, the detection and subsequent chase would likely have focused on William instead. He wouldn't be sitting in a cell in Lefortovo, thanks to his consular status, but he would be following his former colleagues on to another assignment, or back to the United States.

He jumped as he heard movement in the door behind him, but it was only Michelle, come to check on his return. She was wearing her favourite red pajamas—the set he'd bought during a trip to Rome—but she didn't look as if she'd been asleep.

"Hey," he called out softly as she sauntered across to the couch. "Sorry if I made too much noise coming in. Didn't mean to wake you."

She leaned in to give him a gentle, welcoming kiss. "It's okay. I wasn't fully asleep. Just dozing, waiting for you."

"How was your day?" he asked. Hopefully more productive and successful than his.

"Pretty good, actually," she replied. "Went to my language class at the AECA, learned a bunch of new verbs. Had Rachel and Jenny over for lunch. Took Andrew for a stroll in the park to let him shriek at the squirrels. Did a load of laundry. Tried out the new chicken pasta recipe Cate sent me last week."

"Oh yeah? How'd it turn out?"

"Pretty good, actually. Tasty, but filling. Good winter comfort food. There's a portion in the fridge, if you're hungry."

He grimaced slightly. "Sorry, babe. Didn't occur to me you were gonna cook, so I grabbed a sandwich from the canteen."

"That's okay," she said with a soft smile and a forgiving shrug. "It'll be fine in the fridge for a couple of days."

"I'd literally murder someone for a cold beer, though."

"That good, huh?"

"Yeah."

Michelle frowned, perched herself on the arm of the couch and carded her fingers through his hair. "Anything you want to talk about?" she asked, even though she already knew what his answer would be. He wasn't allowed to discuss his work with anyone outside his team, but even if he was, he would never be so foolish as to discuss it here. This was Moscow, and Moscow had Rules. Just because the apartment was on embassy grounds didn't mean nobody was listening in.

He shook his head. "Not really, no."

She leaned over to plant another tender kiss on his brow. "Let me go get you that beer, then."

"Did Andrew settle okay?" he called out after her.

"Eventually, yes," she told him as she returned with a perfectly chilled bottle of Ochakovo. "But he didn't seem very happy about it."

He took the bottle from her and gave her a supportive smile. Their son was now thirteen months old, but had yet to show any inclination for going to bed at a reasonable hour or staying asleep for more than a few hours at a time. He was usually happy to lie in his crib and gurgle cheerfully at the mobile suspended above his bed, but even that could sometimes be loud enough to wake them up.

Correction. Loud enough to wake _Michelle_ up. William had conveniently developed the knack for sleeping through any stunt the infant could pull short of shrieking at the top of his lungs. Something which sometimes left his wife both envious and unimpressed.

"It must come your side of the family," he said, then paused to take a long pull of his drink. "Because I'm pretty sure I could sleep through a war." And he was pretty sure he actually had, on at least one occasion. Maybe two. That thing in Belize with the SAS probably didn't count.

Michelle snorted and rolled her eyes, but wisely kept her opinion of his opinion safely to herself.

He swirled his beer around in the bottle, still dwelling on the day's events. He consoled himself with the realization it could have been even worse. At least the SVR man didn't know his real name. Codenames and aliases might sound like a cliché from a Ludlum or Le Carré novel, but they were also simple and sensible precautions. Even if the Major admitted to his interrogators what he'd gone to the graveyard to do, he couldn't tell them exactly who he had gone to meet. His consular cover was safe for now, and so was his CIA career.

He took another swig of his beer and thought about the FSB man who'd been behind the wheel of that car. He probably had no idea how close he'd come to catching a foreign intelligence service agent with his dick swinging in the wind. Would he actually have preferred that to catching the SVR mole? Probably not. Was he also sitting on his couch, throwing back a cold beer? Perhaps. But unlike him, the other man would surely be drinking it as a well-earned reward, not in a moment of dejected frustration.

He drained his beer and leaned forward to set the now empty container on the table. He wanted another, but that was probably a bad idea. Hunt had told him he could come in late the following morning to make up for the exhausting hours he'd put in today, but he still had to go to work. And cleaning up the political fallout from this debacle would take them until the end of the week.

Besides, he had a much better source of comfort and support than booze.

He pushed himself up from the couch and held out a hand to his wife. "C'mon, beautiful," he murmured, nodding towards their bedroom across the hall. "Let me tuck you in."

********************

Kirill turned his key in the lock and angrily opened the door. He padded into the darkened hall, dropped his keychain in a bowl on the shelf, then turned and deliberately slammed the door as loudly and violently as he could.

That would tell the miserable bitch who lived through the wall what he thought of her and her precious pedigree dog. If it barked him awake at three o'clock in the morning _one more fucking time_ , he would shoot it, gut it, and depending on how much damage the bullet did, either have it stuffed and mounted on a plaque or turned into a warm but gruesome pair of slippers. And he truly didn't give a shit who the woman's son-in-law was or what important position he held. If the man gave him even the slightest amount of grief, Kirill would cheerfully do exactly the same thing to him.

He paused just long enough to set the alarm, then sauntered into the compact kitchen, shucking out of his leather coat as he moved. He yanked at the door of the ancient fridge, reaching automatically for the litre bottle of Stolichnaya, then changed his mind and pulled out an ice-cold bottle of Ochakovo instead. He might come back to the Stoli later. After everything he'd done today, he intended to have more than one or two of end-of-night drinks, official rules and restrictions be damned.

He'd rendezvoused with Sokolov within a minute of receiving his call, and between the two of them, they'd quickly run their quarry to ground. Although, thinking back on it again now, he'd been the one who'd done all of the actual running. Like so many of his FSB peers, Sokolov was a lazy fuck.

The target, who they'd later discovered was a high-ranking officer from Directorate 'S', had actually tried to claim he was simply visiting some family graves. Sure. And Kirill owned a beautiful white and yellow palace over near the Borovitskaya he would sell for a hundred bucks.

Not to worry. The SVR's Enhanced Interrogation Team would soon put the traitorous bastard to rights. Their techniques were nothing if not extremely efficient. Back in his early Spetsnaz days, the brass had put his entire platoon through the Level Two interrogation as part of their pain tolerance training. They'd all survived (more or less), and all come out at the other end much tougher, meaner and stronger, but the experience had given many of them nightmares for months. And even after almost ten years, the smell of industrial lanolin still made him want to piss his pants.

He threw his coat on the kitchen counter and carried his beer into the living room next door, where he flopped inelegantly onto the couch and reached for the remote control. He'd briefly considered finding himself an attractive companion for the night, but had then decided he would rather spend it with the _Armeitsy_ instead.

He took a long pull of his drink. Cold beer and football highlights—an excellent end to an excellent and productive day. And tomorrow promised to be even better.

His boss had called him two hours ago to grudgingly thank him for a job well done, and to invite him to an important meeting at Yasenevo. The Rezident at the Russian consulate in Geneva was apparently having some 'personal' problems that couldn't be handled through the standard channels. The Director wanted the problems resolved, preferably quickly, quietly and with no blowback for either the SVR or the employees of the Rezidentura. Which meant they were probably going to give him a fake passport, a plane ticket and instructions on where to obtain a gun, then send him to Geneva to silently eliminate whoever or whatever was responsible for all the fuss.

Finally, some work that was more in keeping with his ambitions and talents.

A trip to Switzerland would suit him well. And not just because it would give him a chance to practise his French or buy himself an expensive watch. He'd recently given some serious thought to how best to protect some important personal belongings. He didn't trust the Russian banks and security companies worth a damn, so perhaps while he was in the Confederation, he would quietly investigate the confidential services for which the country was so renowned.

It was never a bad idea to plan for the future, especially when you worked as a government-sponsored assassin. The SVR and the FSB were both notoriously capricious employers. One small mistake, one bad decision, one wrong word to the wrong person at the wrong time, and they would throw your sorry ass to the wolves without a moment's regret.

That wasn't going to happen to him. He liked being the hunter; he had no intention of ever becoming the prey.

His own father had never acknowledged that risk and had paid for his ignorance with his life. At least, that's what Kirill preferred to believe. Even after all this time, he still didn't know for sure who had ordered his father killed, or what Alexander Orlov had done to deserve his unfortunate end. The older Orlov had been found in a basement room of the Lubyanka with a bullet in the back of his skull, which meant the KGB had been involved. Unfortunately, his numerous attempts to uncover additional information, either through official channels or via contacts at the FSB—the KGB's successor organization—had all run into a brick wall. A solid, imposing, red brick wall like the one that ran around the Kremlin Hill.

All things considered, perhaps not knowing was for the best. And either way, he really shouldn't dwell too long on thoughts of his father. It would only lead him to think about his bitch of a mother, then inevitably, about his twin. Which he'd long since decided was a complete and utter waste of his time.

His father was dead, and his mother and brother were gone. How, when, where and why were all extremely interesting questions, but knowing the answers wouldn't magically change his life, or undo the problems of the last twenty years. So what the hell was the point in asking?

He drained his beer and leaned forward to set the container down on the table.

Time for another drink.


End file.
